


Grapefruit Juice

by AwHaleNaw



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Derek POV, Failwolf Friday, M/M, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-12
Updated: 2016-05-12
Packaged: 2018-06-08 01:13:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,846
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6832864
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AwHaleNaw/pseuds/AwHaleNaw
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For one blissful moment Derek thinks Stiles might leave him alone. </p><p>Unfortunately, what happens instead is he receives a squirt of water in his ear followed by a very heavy body crashing into his. He is crushed into the mattress, the air pushed out of his lungs with a soft <em> oof </em>. </p><p>“Did you just <em> spit </em> on me?” </p><p>“It was water, not spit, you idiot. A glass of water. You know, the good ol’ h-two-oh. There’s some grapefruit juice, too, if you prefer something more sour to match your perky personality? It’s hella good. Not even the cheap stuff. It’s got pulp. It’s healthy.” Stiles sighs. “Mmh. Breakfast. Now that is a divine invention. Come on, Derek. Break your fast. Break your fast with me.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Grapefruit Juice

There is always a moment, a timespan of no more than three or four seconds, during which, having just woken up, he isn’t aware of where he is, who he is, what he may or may not have just dreamed, or what is waiting for him. Instead, there’s an emptiness he barely has time to appreciate before thoughts creep back in, robbing him of peace like like a thief, uninvited and unwelcome.

 

The first coherent thought forming itself is an awareness of the rays of light filtering through the crack of the broken blinds to his left and he slowly realizes it must have been the reason he had awoken so early.

 

Abruptly, he turns around, facing away from the light, and nearly crashes into another face. He’d almost forgotten there was someone else in his bed. Derek sighs and closes his eyes, holding on to the lingering emptiness.

 

He hears, “Derek.”

 

“No.”

 

Not yet.

 

While Stiles is babbling on, Derek does everything he can to ignore the waterfall of words.

 

His body is unwilling to move, muscles still asleep and soft. His mind is confused, still tired and trying to make sense of the change to wakefulness. Though he can do nothing to stop it, his brain already starts to rev into motion, reminding of a whole list of things waiting to be taken care of today, tomorrow, next month. Little snippets of sentences and reminders lurk around the corner of his mind, creep in, and –and, no, not yet.

 

A few words trail into recognition, and he vaguely realizes Stiles is talking about some movie he’d seen last week. _That idiot mother_ and _begs him_ and _decides like the grand fool he is_ and _catacombs, hey that kinda fits your doom and gloom style, right?_ The words don’t make any sense. He can’t make sense of it, but more importantly, he doesn’t want to.

 

Hoping to make himself clear, he keeps quiet and his eyes remain closed.

 

Suddenly, cold air washes over his bare legs and he lets out a loud groan. Almost out of reflex, he forces himself upright and hauls the covers right back where they are supposed to be: atop him, heavy and warm.

 

Knowing what will follow, he grips the duvet tightly with both his hands, and Stiles can’t get them to budge. “Ugh. Come one. Hey _asshole_ , you need to get up,” he points out. “It’s way past time.”

 

“No.”

 

It seems today is different, because he hears Stiles’ noisy footsteps _thump thump thump_ , like a ten tonne giant, pounding on the floor —“No”— and feels the sheets being pulled loose at the foot of the bed —“ _No_ ”—, and suddenly the covers lie in a heap on his upper body, bare legs once again in cold air. He turns and glares at Stiles, bites out “No,” peels the covers back and throws the sheets over himself, only to have them —“No”— thrown back again.

 

“ _Yes_.”

 

“No.”

 

Derek laments internally. With his body slowly cooling down, his brain starts to wake up.

 

He still hasn’t reopened his eyes, and wonders briefly if Stiles has left, so he pushes the cover back down, and —“No!”— they get thrown back, smacking into his face.

 

“Get up.”

 

“No.”

 

“Get up, you lazy-ass curmudgeon.”

 

“No.”

 

“Come on, Derek, you asked me yesterday, remember? And _don’t_ say no—”

 

“No”

 

“— _so,_ get up. Now,” he yells.

 

Stiles grabs his ankles and pulls viciously. In return Derek jostles his legs forcefully and sends Stiles sprawling with a loud _thunk._ “Ow! Okay, this is bullshit,” Stiles grouses. Derek is smacked repeatedly. He ignores it. Then starts the poking.

 

How can he be so tired? His eyes are cemented shut, his limbs feel like someone ran a truck over them back and forth. What the hell did he even do last night? He’s almost asleep again, despite Stiles’ fingers prodding into his side.

 

There’s something insistent nudging at the edges of his brain. A dream he had last night. It’s difficult to grab onto, as if the memories purposefully make themselves blurry with the goal of making you forget. There’s a part of the dream floating in his mind. A tall building he found himself in, with an illusory amount of windows that showed a city full of dark blue and flickers of gold that shimmered into his eyes as the sun moved too quickly. Mere moments later, a moon hung high in the sky looking so big, silent and steady, he couldn’t stop staring at it.

 

_Derek_

 

Derek tries to recreate the image in his mind, but finds that each time he tries, it became more difficult to grasp. Dreams are elusive by law. He remembers a strange feeling of euphoric calm that left traces he could almost taste. It felt like home. No ash, no dust, just home. Unless he focuses now, in an hour or less it’ll be gone. Completely forgotten. Christ, if Stiles could just leave him be…

 

Stiles, however, is completely oblivious to what is happening in Derek’s brain. He’s still talking, growing louder, and the words break the slumber Derek clings to.

 

He is asked to get up. “No.”

 

“I’m eating breakfast, you can join me if you like,” Stiles announces, trying to trick him.

 

“No.”

 

“We can … do stuff.”

 

“No.”

 

Stiles punches his shoulder. “Your vocabulary sucks ass.”

 

Whether Stiles actually leaves or not, Derek isn’t aware of, but he’s not bothered by it as a part of the dream finally comes back.

 

At one point, he had tried to leave the building, in the hopes of going outside, but every stair he descended turned into an ascent, every door he opened turned into a room that was eerily similar to the previous one, with the same stunning, ethereal view. He’d stopped trying to leave, preferring to give up and just _look_. The windows were odd, and he thought they might have been mirrors of one single image, but couldn’t figure out how that would work, or where the original was. The city was brimming with light and life, but it barely reached him from where he stood. He was alone. He was at peace.

 

The covers not covering his body are forgotten as he drowns back into his dream, now more successful in recreating it.

 

A loud voice yanks him back into reality. “I didn’t bring you breakfast, FYI, if you want it, you’ll have to _get up_ and get it yourself.”

 

Why did he have to get up, again? It had something to do with work. A deadline.

 

“Derek.”

 

Silence.

 

“Derek.”

 

Silence.

 

“ _Derek_.”

 

“ _No.”_

Stiles grinds his teeth audibly and bursts out, “Oh my _god!_ ”

He remembers now, the alarm, which he has no recollection of hearing, was set for half past seven, so that he would have a solid four hours before the article had to be sent in. It hadn’t been the sun waking him. Surely he had some time left.

 

He feels the covers being pulled back, freeing his face, and then nothing. For one blissful moment he thinks Stiles might leave him alone.

 

Unfortunately, what happens instead is he receives a squirt of water in his ear followed by a very heavy body crashing into his. He is unpleasantly crushed into the mattress, the air pushed out of his lungs with a soft _oof._

 

Stiles yells into his face, at god knows how many decibels, “GOOD MORNING, VIETNAM! Derek flinches at the noise, propping himself up on his elbows.

 

“Did you just _spit_ on me?”

 

“It was water, not spit, you idiot. A glass of water. You know, the good ol’ h-two-oh. There’s some grapefruit juice, too, if you prefer something more sour to match your perky personality? It’s hella good. Not even the cheap stuff. It’s got pulp. It’s _healthy._ ” Stiles sighs. “Mmh. Breakfast. Now that is a divine invention. Come on, Derek. Break your fast. Break your fast with me.”

 

Derek despises early morning cheer and lets his body slink back into the mattress, turning around again. Stiles’ hands settle on his back and he leans in.

 

“Hey, wake up, come on, I swear, this is ridiculous. Get up, get up, get up, get up, GET UP, GET UP, UP, UP, UP!”

 

“No.”

 

“Okay, seriously, you need some variety in that vocabulary of yours, this is starting to become pathetic. Your career’s never gonna hit it off like this. Dude, you’re a piss poor excuse of a journalist.”

 

Derek groans. The body doesn’t get off him, even when he tries to shake it off. Giving up, he thinks of the heavy moon.

 

Apart from the few times he has opened his eyes, he’s kept them firmly shut all morning.

 

Derek feels two hands touch his body, first his waist, then his thigh, his neck, his back, turning him around, and then two lips on his. Next to the lingering taste of morning breath, there’s something sticky, too. It’ll be grapefruit. This continues for about five minutes. Slowly, Derek wakes up, and finds himself willingly moving, suddenly hungry. This is addictive. The moon can suck it. Derek opens his mouth. Stiles' tongue pushes in.

 

Eventually he twists his body so he can reach Stiles easily. Drags his hands through Stiles’ hair, feels him smile. Trails along his skin, feels sweat. “ _Now_ you’re stirring. Figures.”

 

Then Stiles removes the covers completely —“No”— and he climbs on top of Derek, pinning his arms flat to the side —“Oh, _yes_ ”—, and proceeds to tug at Derek’s bottom lip on the side of painful. Derek retaliates by prying his hands loose and pushing them against Stiles’ thighs, deliberately slow and hard, and then grabs his hips and pulls down fast, just like he knows Stiles likes. Puts one hand between Stiles' legs. “Ah-hha, _yes_ , see what an awesome word that is? Yes, yes, yes? The greatest word in the Oxford Dictionary, the greatest word in—” and he babbles on.

 

Stiles places his hands on Derek’s shoulder and pulls, manoeuvres him upright. Smashes his lips against Derek’s and licks a strip up his neck, then shifts his body so that his feet are suddenly planted between Derek’s legs, leans back, pulls, kisses along his jaw while sliding down his hands, distracts, touches, pulls Derek to his knees, kisses hard, and then promptly lets go.

 

“ _Stiles_!”

 

Derek loses his balance, and the space where a body is supposed to be is empty. He fumbles and falls forward, eyes shooting open and crashes into the wooden floor. “ _Stiles_ ”, he grounds out, glaring between his bruised knee and Stiles, who whistles.

 

“Sucker,” he says from where he’s standing a few feet away with an infuriating smug look on his face. “I can’t believe you fell for that. Get it? _Fell_ for that?”

 

Derek only glares at him while hoisting his body up. Stiles walks out of the room, “Now, back to business, breakfast. The pulp! The bread! The pop-tarts! The _coffee_!”, and leaves Derek behind, who is furiously rubbing his face.

 

Derek sighs, and sighs again, and forces himself to wake up, finally.

**Author's Note:**

> An old work, but i reworked it.
> 
> Thought, comments?
> 
> Be prepared, be enthusiastic, and leave your bullshit attitude and bagage at the door 'cause we don't need it!


End file.
